Henry should have known disaster would strike.

In the morning, Coach Taylor put the team through a slew of defensive drills. Henry could hardly believe it but the man was an encyclopedia of baseball knowledge. He had a training exercise for every hitting scenario paired with every combination of men on base.

Each drill was done by the book too. Run, catch, glove, tag, throw and repeat. And if you messed up, Coach was sure to let you know.

"Henry! You can't let that ball get past you!"

Henry felt his stomach turn inside-out. He was covering third when Cletus Barker blasted a vicious ball in his direction. But it took a bad hop, and skipped off the tip of Henry's glove. By the time he chased the ball down, arm cocked to throw it in, Jake was already tagging home plate, and wasted no time to send Henry a smart-assed grin for good measure.

"Sorry, Coach," Henry said, lowering his head.

"Sorry don't cut it!" Coach Taylor's voice boomed. "Better start making plays if you want to start."

Henry lost track of how many times Coach yelled at him. Truth is, Coach Taylor yelled at everyone. Henry wondered how the man even had a voice as practice wore on.

Drill after drill, the hours seemed to blend together as the sun drifted across the blue sky towards the waiting clouds in the horizon.

For the most part, Henry kept to himself. Jake and the other white players didn't bother him except for the occasional chimpanzee hoots, monkey scratching, and jabs when passing by.

"Hang in there, buddy," Dale said. "They'll warm up to you eventually."

"Right," Henry replied. "Like in the next century."

At five o'clock, the shadows grew long as day light was waning, and still baseball practice was in full swing.

Coach Taylor seemed intent on working the team to exhaustion. Maybe he was doing it to see how all the players operated now that Henry had joined the team. Coach kept moving the players around. Making changes here and there. Hell-bent on testing each player against the others. And there was only one word to describe his practice:

Intensive!

"Let's go!" Coach Taylor hollered. "Next drill!"

Henry took up the shortstop position, slightly closer to second base than third. He leaned over in the ready position.

Coach continued. "Man on first. One out."

Jake led off first base, daring to run to second. On the mound, Dale blazed a fastball, and Garrett Hayes knocked a grounder to the right of the mound. Marshall Young snared the ball and tossed it to Henry at second base for the out.

Henry ripped the ball to first for the double-play when he felt a shoulder ram into his gut. He grunted as his back slammed into the ground. A cloud of dust ballooned into the air, and Henry looked up to see Jake glaring down at him.

Anger crawled up Henry's spine. He knew if Willy were here, he would only tell him to turn the other cheek. But Henry couldn't turn the other cheek. He just couldn't. If he did, incidents like this were sure to happen again. No, he had to stand up for himself and he had to do it now.

Henry got up and marched up to Jake. "What's your problem?"

"Well, if you can't take a little hit," Jake said, grinning, "maybe you should hang up your glove."

"You call that a hit?" Henry said.

Jake gave a smug nod. "Your mama must have taught you how to play 'cause you sure do hit like a girl."

Marshall laughed and that, and over at first base, Garrett snorted in amusement.

Rage plumed through Henry's body. He lunged forward, tackling Jake to the ground.

"Fight!" someone yelled.

Henry grabbed onto Jake's shirt, holding him to the ground. He pulled a fist back, but before he could let the punch go, someone grabbed him from behind and yanked him off of Jake.

"Come on, Henry!" Dale said from behind, pulling him back.

Jake jumped to his feet and charged forward, his hands balled into fists. He was about to unload a punch when Coach Taylor stepped between him and Henry.

Jake lowered his fist and backed off. He was flanked by his posse. That's what Dale called them. Rusty Ryan. Garrett Hayes. Marshall Young. Behind them was every other white player on the team except Dale who stood at Henry's side.

"That's enough!" Coach Taylor yelled. "The two of you are acting like five year olds!"

"He knocked me down on purpose!" Henry said. "You saw it, Coach! You all saw it!"

Henry looked around at the sea of white faces, looking for some support and sympathy and knowing even as he began that he wouldn't find any. He saw a mix of emotions in the faces of his new teammates: anger, shock, disgust.

"Well, Coach!" Henry said, spinning back in Coach Taylor's direction. "Aren't you going to do something about what he did?"

"Rule number one," Coach said. "Never retaliate against a fellow teammate."

"What?!" Henry said, "You mean, I can't defend myself? That's bullshit!"

"Bullshit or not," Coach Taylor snapped, "what you did gets you eight laps around the field."

Henry gaped. Sighed. Shook his head in disbelief. "You got to be kidding."

Just about everyone held back laughter, allowing only the slimmest of grins, but Jake snickered soundly.

Turning to Jake, Coach's expression flashed red. "I don't know what you're laughing at 'cause what you did gets you a trip to my office."

"What the Hell did I do?" Jake asked, eyebrows raised.

"I'm okay with you playing hard. But pulling that stunt, during a practice, was uncalled for."

Jake grimaced. He looked ready to clock someone in the side of the head. "What are you looking at, jungle bunny?"

Henry grinned at Jake. "Looks like you going to the principal's office."

Coach Taylor squared his shoulders at Henry, and Henry's grin melted away. "You better start running," Coach said, "before I double those laps. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Henry said softly. He gave Jake one last look before turning and jogging off. Still in earshot, he could hear Coach hollering at the team.

Henry heard Coach shout, "Westin, I want you in my office in ten!"

Then he heard words like pitiful practice and god-awful attitudes and better shape up.

As Henry eased into a rhythm, the padding of his feet matching the quick patter of his heart, he wondered if Coach's words were meant for him too.

Author's Note

The man in the chapter image is baseball legend Ty Cobb who reminds me of Jake Westin.

Nicknamed The Georgia Peach, Ty Raymond Cobb (December 18, 1886 – July 17, 1961) was an American Major League Baseball (MLB) center fielder.

Cobb was born in 1886 in Narrows, Georgia, a small rural community of farmers. He was the first of three children born to William Herschel Cobb (1863–1905) and Amanda Chitwood Cobb (1871–1936). Cobb's father was a state senator.

Cobb spent twenty-two seasons with the Detroit Tigers, the last six as the team's player-manager, and finished his career with the Philadelphia Athletics.

In 1936, Cobb received the most votes of any player on the inaugural Baseball Hall of Fame ballot, receiving 222 out of a possible 226 votes (98.2%). No other player received a higher percentage of votes until Tom Seaver in 1992.

In 1999, editors at the Sporting News ranked Ty Cobb third on their list of "Baseball's 100 Greatest Players".

Source: Wikipedia

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thanks for taking the time to read my little story.

Best Regards,

Tom